


Something Like Human

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [21]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Jason has some side effects from coming back from the dead, mentions of past child murder, not really a plot just wonderments about Jason's Resurrection Side Effects, the white streak has arrived, written on two hours of sleep and one nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: The woman’s voice cuts off, but the kid just screams louder; until it suddenly devolves into choking and gagging and then, mercifully, silence.He doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until Dove’s kneeling in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and saying his name in a high, frightened voice.
Series: Garage Tapes [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1033470
Comments: 25
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fuel’s ‘Prove’. The boy upstairs aken from an absolutely hideous nightmare of mine (though the nightmare was some sort of supernatural western, played like a movie!). Got me up at two-thirty and let me kiss sleep good-bye for the night. Why? I don’t know. But this is written on an absolutely shit sleep. :)

Jason hasn’t been the same since he came back. 

He guesses that’s only fair-he  **was** murdered, after all-but still. He hears things. Some stuff is just neighbors, but...some of those neighbors are two floors down, but he hears them like they’re right next door. And then, he figures out, some of them...aren’t exactly his neighbors anymore.

It’s late. It’s been a month since he...came home...and he’s crashed in his room, debating on reading just one more chapter or going to sleep. And then he hears old Mrs. Maroon hollering for her daughter two doors down. Great. It’s one of her bad nights, when she’s not with at all and--

Mrs. Maroon died two years ago. She got out of the apartment during an episode at two o’ clock in the morning and fell down the stairs. He still remembers the thudding, clumping sounds.

Now, he’s pretty sure she didn’t...get better...like he did, because Dove would’a mentioned it. And he’s wide awake, he knows he is, but…

He ends up hiding under his blankets, shivering, until the hollering stops.

* * *

After that, he’s never sure about the noises. That crappy faucet upstairs, is it really running? Are those footsteps from a living neighbor?

He doesn’t mention it to Dove. Not until a dark afternoon when there’s a horrible  **bang!** upstairs, followed by a crying child and a screaming woman.

He’s halfway off the couch when Dove twists over, seemingly oblivious to the racket upstairs, and gives him a funny look.

“Jay?”

Doesn’t she...oh. Whatever’s going on up there, it’s...it’s over.

He sinks back to the couch, shoulders around his ears and tries, desperately, to ignore the screaming and the crying.

“Jason, what’s--”

_ “Jacob!” _

_ “Mommy!” _

_ “Shut up, ya little brat--” _

_ “Don’t you touch him--” _

The woman’s voice cuts off, but the kid just screams louder; until it suddenly devolves into choking and gagging and then, mercifully, silence.

He doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until Dove’s kneeling in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and saying his name in a high, frightened voice.

“--son.  _ Jason. _ Jayjay, what’s the matter--”

“Who’s Jacob?” he manages to spit out, lips shaking and fat and unwilling to form clear words. “Jacob, upstairs, who was that--”

Dove’s gone still, fingers tense against his cheeks.

“Jason?”

“D, please--”

There’s no more noises now. Just normal apartment sounds; a TV, conversations, somebody’s dog. But he can’t breathe and he knows he heard that and Jesus--

“A few months before I found you,” Dove finally says carefully, “there was a family upstairs, kid’s name was Jacob. The guy came home one night and, uh, beat his wife to death, strangled the little boy. Where did you hear the name--”

“M’not okay,” he forces out. “M’not okay, ‘ve been hearing things since I. Since I came back, and sometimes s’just voice like Mrs. Maroon yellin’ for dinner but this--the goddamn  _ screaming _ \--”

Dove pulls him into a hug and rubs his back.

“S’okay, baby, s’okay...s’okay...how long has this been going on?”

“I didn’t realize until.” He swallows, tries to get a full breath in. “Until I heard Mrs. Maroon. Couple’a weeks ago.”

“Okay.” She kisses his head. “Okay, honey. Just. You tell me, okay? If anything comes up?”

He nods.

“I wasn’t... **I** wouldn’t believe me, a-and--”

“Jay.” He shuts up. “Jason, you were...just tell me, okay? I promise I’ll listen.”

“‘Kay.”

* * *

The voices stop after a year. But he still...he’s aware. There’s a chill in the air sometimes, in certain areas. And every so often, while he’s half-asleep, he’ll hear whispers. Some of them are gentle, some of them...scare him. But that fades, too, once there’s less history around him. 

Then again, the desert has its own ghosts.

He hasn’t had any sort of...supernatural experience...in two years when he and Drouot stumble upon what used to be a house. It’s crumbled, decidedly empty, looks like it’s been raided by Luthor’s goons and looters.

And despite the hundred and twelve degree heat, it’s fucking freezing.

“Look at this.” Drouot picks up some sort of knickknack, a clay donkey. “I’m surprised this thing’s still intact.”

Yeah. 

“Think there’s anything we can use in here?”

Cold places have never actively hurt him. He went upstairs, once, when Dove was at work, picked the lock to that apartment. It had been freezing, and he’d had to run home to throw up, but nothing had actually happened to him.

“Maybe.”

The door’s hanging half-off its hinges. Inside, the place is an absolute ruin; table broken, chairs overturned, sand everywhere. And it’s colder here than it was on what was left of the porch, cold enough to make his hair stand on end and his fingers shake.

Something bad happened here. He doesn’t want to know what, he just knows something  **did** . 

“Christ, there’s no escape from this heat,” Drouot mutters. “And there’s not much here...I lied, I can make bullets out of this.”

“Out of what?” Just a little cold. Cold’s never hurt him before. “What’d you find?”

“Fireplace poker--you look awful.”

They shouldn’t be here.

He realizes he’s crouched down in the sand, gloved fingers reaching towards a half-buried doll. When did he...what…

“Hey.” Huh? “Are you sick or something? You’re all pasty.”

The fireplace poker waves in his line of vision.  **That.** That’s got something to do with the cold, that did something--

“Leave it.”

“What?”

“Leave it here. C’mon, we should...we shouldn’t be here.”

“Boss?”

**“Let’s go.”**

Drouot shrugs, a little more cautious than he was earlier, and sets the poker down.

“What’s up?”

What’s he supposed to say? ‘Yeah, so when I died and got better, I got supernaturally sensitive and something bad happened here so we need to clear out’? That’s a terrible idea. Sounds crazy.

“I don’t...just…” He swallows, struggles to his feet. “We shouldn’t be here. Leave that and let’s go.”

“Uh, okay?”

The cold dissipates literally five feet from the house. Seriously, that’s all it takes. Warmth rushes back into his fingers and his bones and he cracks his shoulders, drains half his canteen and pretends Drouot’s not looking at him like he’s a crazy man.

“You okay, boss?”

“It’s.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s complicated. Zombie bullshit, s’all.”

“So what, you’re psychic or something?”

“Not exactly. Look. Just.” He shakes his head. “Forget it, okay? It’s nothing.”

“F’you say so, sir.” Drouot twists back to look at the house. “So, uh, you’re sure you’re good?”

Good enough.

“Yeah,” he says, tosses his best devil-may-care grin over his shoulder. “Everything’s just peachy.”

THE END


	2. "Never Used to Look at Me Like That..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is now gonna be a little set, maybe five pieces, of Weird Shit Related to Jason’s Resurrection. Okay. Posting because I have NEWS.
> 
> The Bad: as some of you may know, my dad has lung cancer.
> 
> The Good: it’s not as bad as they thought and the goal is to cure it.
> 
> The Grey: treatment starts soon and while I will try to be active-for my own mental health in particular-I may not be around as much. SO if I go a little AWOL at times, I’m not dead of the plague, I’m just busy.

Olli volunteers to see if Dove’s okay when three PM rolls around and she’s nowhere to be seen. She’s never late, and lately she’s been...early. Says it’s better than sitting at home.

The first weird thing is that the door’s unlocked. That really sets his spidey-sense off; Dove’s religious about locked doors. Maybe she’s getting the...no, she locks the door.  **Always.**

Something’s wrong.

He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible and pokes his head into the kitchen first, ear cocked for the shower. Nothing.

The feeling of unease grows when he checks the bathroom, wondering if she fell (or, um...hurt herself), and spots what looks like a torn suit in the shower. It’s sopping wet and when he picks it up, it’s small, bloodstained and there’s wood and dead bugs in it.

_ Dove, what did you do? _

Dove has not been okay, not really, since Jason died. He...he doesn’t get it, ‘cause he’s not a parent, but he sympathizes. But he’s not sure she wouldn’t...do something.

He checks Jason’s room next, worry growing, and yeah, there she is. He doesn’t register the body in her arms at first, but then he does, and his first (horrified) thought is,  _ oh, God, she dug him up _ .

But then the body shifts, independent of her, and the eyes open, same striking blue they’ve always been.

“Uncle O?”

What the hell.

It sounds like him. It sounds just like him, but it can’t be, he’s dead, those bastards--

Whatever that thing is, it shrugs and closes its eyes again. It looks like Jay. Sounds like him. But it  **can’t be** .

Shit, is Dove--

No, no, Dove’s breathing. She looks incredibly uncomfortable, but she’s breathing and...how? What did she do?

Jay-or whatever that is-moves again, and this time Dove starts awake. She looks at Jason, who’s still either asleep or resting quietly, and  **then** she sees Olli.

“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

Penguin can wait. Work can wait. He points at Jason, wanting to ask, but his voice isn’t working.

“You see him too, then.” Yeah. “I thought. I thought I was dreaming, or...maybe I imagined him.” She brings a hand up, rubs the back of his head before trailing her fingers across his shoulders. “I just. I missed him so damn  _ much _ \--”

Her voice breaks and she presses her face into Jason’s hair. Olli’s about to...panic more, basically...but she’s not crying. Jason stirs, though, eyes fluttering open again, and pulls a bandaged hand out from the blankets to wave.

“Hey, Uncle O.” The hand drops. “Thought you lost the key?”

He did. He’d brought Charlie’s, but…

“Hey, Jay.” He goes a little closer and crouches down. “S’been a. Been a bit, kid.”

“Mm-hm.” He squirms tighter against Dove’s side. “Yeah.”

“You good, honey? You need anything?”

“Mm-mm.”

Jesus…

He reaches over, fingers shaking, until he touches the boy’s arm. He’s solid, sleep-warm and soft like he’d been the handful of times he’d let Olli pick him up. How? Jesus Christ, he’d been...it’s been six months, this isn’t a case of accidental early burial…

Jason just blinks at him. Dove rubs his head and he makes a contented sound, mumbles, “That feels nice, D.”

How...his hands. His hands are wrapped from fingertip to forearm. Oh, Christ, he didn’t…

“When…?”

“Last night.” Dove’s voice is rough. “Maybe...eleven, I don’t know. Last night.”

Jeeze.

Dove doesn’t elaborate and Jason closes his eyes again, tucks his head against Dove’s neck like he used to do when he was real little. He...he looks fine. Looks like he always did. Maybe a little sunken in the face, but other than that…

“Can I getcha anything?”

Dove’s quiet for a few seconds, lower lip between her teeth, before saying, “Water, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“T’anks, Olli.”

He ducks out, head spinning, and gets water on auto-pilot. He’s taken three steps away from the fridge when his knees wobble and he hurries to set the glass down before having to sit on the floor.

Jason was  **dead** . He was at his funeral, Dove has not been okay since it happened, even Penguin was getting a little squirrely a few months back…

Jason was dead and now he isn’t. And look, Olli may not have graduated high school, but he knows that ain’t the natural order of things.

He gets up, gets the water, and shuffles back towards Jay’s room. Dove’s fallen back asleep, looks like, but Jason’s looking at the door. He doesn’t...now that Olli’s not looking for some sort of third eye or other Bad Sign, he doesn’t look  _ quite _ the same. Jay always had...Charlie called ‘em Old Eyes. None of that bright-eyed bushy-tailed bullshit. And it had gotten a lot less noticeable when he got older, but now he looks like those old pictures of World War One soldiers. Dazed. A hundred. Not okay.

Olli sets the water down and plasters a smile on. Jason just looks at him, unblinking, and…

He’s not scared of him. He knows this kid, he  **loves** this kid. But. Jason never used to look at him like that, not even when he was eleven and distrustful of literally everyone.

Is Dove gonna tell him, he wonders, about what happened with Michael Rays and all the others?

“You need anything, Jay?”

He shakes his head.

“Mm-mm.” Then, “What. What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

He shrugs and finally blinks.

“‘Kay.”

He reaches over to touch him again. Still warm. Still solid. How…

“S’good to have you back, brat,” he finally wheezes. Jason gives him a small smile, but it doesn’t last and he nestles under his blanket with a shiver.

“S’good to be home.”

Jesus. He should. He should call, or, or wake Dove up to call or  **something** . And he’s considering it when Jason moves a bit and…

People eyes don’t shine like that, like a cat’s. What the hell--

“What?” Jay moves again and the shine vanishes. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Just.” What the hell. “Just weird to see you again, that’s all.”

“Hrm.”

He knows what he saw. He’s not gonna bring it up, but he knows what he saw. He wonders if Dove knows. Figures he’s not risking his neck and saying squat. Jason’s...almost like he was before, and...even if he...thing is…

So he’s got creepy eyes now. So what? Olli’s still glad to have him home. It’s not like he’s acting like that kid from Pet Sematary or macking down on brains or something. It’s fine.  **He’s** fine.

Olli just hopes he stays that way.

THE END


	3. Came Back Off

_ “Mmmmm--” _

_ “I gotcha, I gotcha, we’re gonna.” So much blood God there’s so much blood he’s just a kid what did they do to him-? “We’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna go home, baby, please--” _

_ Jason gags, red dripping down his lips and cheeks and throat and God no please no-- _

_ “I don’t feel good--” _

_ “Sh-sh-sh--” _

_ He chokes and gags again and then he’s  _ **_still_ ** _ , head lolling to the side, eyes gazing at nothing. _

_ “Jason.” No. No, no, no, no-- “Jason, wake up, Jay, please--God--” _

Dove wakes up with tears on her face and her throat swollen like she’s been trying to sob quietly. Maybe she has. She hasn’t...she’d been sleeping a little better, back in the city. Not so much out here. It’s too quiet, the sudden shrieks of whatever lives out in the desert too random to ignore.

Jay’s fine. She knows he’s fine, because she just saw him...three hours ago. He’d been watching whatever was on the pirate broadcast, he’s fine.

But this time last year, he hadn’t been, and she’d had that nightmare and had to wake up to the fact that he was dead and--

To  **hell** with this, she’s not getting back to sleep after that.

She gets up, scrubbing at her face and finds that ugh, she’s sweated through these pajamas. Man, either it’s the heat or...heat. It was the heat, and that’s  **it** . Now. Where did that really soft t-shirt go?

A wet washcloth takes the blotchiness off her face and a swig of lukewarm tap water helps the throat, but closing her eyes for too long keeps bringing up Jason’s limp body. He hadn’t been bloody like that when she’d seen him...seen him then, someone had cleaned him up, but…

_ Stop it! _

He’s fine. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s just

_ Dead those bastards killed him and that’s why you spent a weekend dismembering a man in the bathtub, the blood’ll never come off your hands-- _

She’ll check on him. And see that yeah, he’s just fine, and then maybe she can at least get back in bed. It’s two in the damn morning, after all.

It’s quiet, creepy-quiet, and she knows this is dumb. He’s fucking fine, he’s in bed-he’d better be, at this hour-and she’s just--

Well, he’s not. He’s on the couch, arm hanging off. The TV’s long since reverted to late-night static, the light casting an eerie glow over the living room. Christ, this kid…

She intends, at first, to just let him be. Go get him a blanket and just let him sleep. But. Something’s not right. What’s going on, what’s off...

He’s not breathing.

Okay. Okay. That’s dumb. He’s asleep and she’s freaked out, of course he’s breathing.

But he’s  **not** . She’s right here, she can see him not breathing and hear nothing but static, and when she shuts the TV off it’s absolutely  **silent** in this room.

“Jason.” Her voice can’t go above a whisper and she has to physically will her hand to go to his shoulder. “Jay.”  _ No no no don’t be dead please God not again--  _ “Jay!”

She gives him a rough shake and- _ thank you Jesus _ -he startles awake with a rough gasp.

“Wha-?”

_ You weren’t breathing _ , she wants to say. But that’s impossible. He had to have been, because he is now.

“C’mon, kiddo, you’re gonna be sorry if you stay out here all night,” she says instead. He’s fine. She just. Paranoia, or…

He’s fine. Isn’t he?

“M’okay,” he mumbles. “G’night, D…”

“Up. Come on.”

He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Wha time s’it?”

“Late.” He’s okay. He’s okay. “Bed, Jay, come on.”

He tumbles under his sheets, awkward-limbed and half-asleep, and takes a deep, shuddery breath.

“Somethin’ wake ya?”

“No,” she lies, leans down to kiss his forehead. “Wanted a water. Sweet dreams, Jason.”

“Night.”

He’s all right. He’s just fine. He’s just fine.

But she’s not going back to sleep.

THE END


	4. Family Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May 2021 suck less! Remember, children, mask up and social distance! (Seriously. Six. Feet. Don't even test me, old men who hang their noses over the fucking mask and think rules are for other people. I am a fountain of righteous rage.)

Damian has not been asleep for several hours. He can’t. It’s nothing in particular, just one of those nights. He decides he will go downstairs and watch the pirate broadcast.

He wraps himself in the blanket he keeps hanging over the foot of the bed and makes his way downstairs, sticking to the wall to avoid the creaky boards. The house is dark, but not, as he discovers, sleeping-the television is already on, volume low.

“Hey, hon.” Dove half-twists to wave at him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Wanna siddown?”

He’s already here. He may as well.

“All right.”

Jason is here as well. He is asleep, scrunched up between Dove and the arm of the couch. The flickering light from the television makes a strip of his bangs look white-no. No, it really is white.

Good lord, he’s been forced to have familial associations with a  **punk.**

“Can’t you stop him?” he whispers, settling down on Dove’s other side.

“Hm?”

“His men will never respect him--” And by association, Damian. “--if he insists on this…this…this rebellion.”

Dove raises an eyebrow and he points at the offending streak. It’s not a full streak, more like it’s washing out, but  **still.**

She laughs at him. Laughs! This is no laughing matter. This is a Serious Concern.

“Dami, that’s not…” She shakes her head and pulls him into a hug. “It’s a long story, hon.”

“We have time.”

“Not tonight.” Tt. “Now sh, you’re gonna miss stuff.”

* * *

He clambers onto Jason’s back at two in the afternoon, digs his knees into his ribs, and is irritated that the hand holding a jam-covered knife doesn’t even twitch.

“I will fight you for this sandwich,” Jason says mildly. “Don’t even test me.”

Damian considers testing him anyway. He settles, instead, for tugging on the white and grumbling, “What is this.”

“Fuck, I gotta dye it again. Almost forgot.”

“Explain.”

“Later,” he says, in that tone that means  **never** . “M’hungry. Get off.”

But-YEE!

Jason leans backwards farther than Damian thinks he should be able to, and it becomes a case of Let Go or Fall Hard. He lets go. Grudgingly.

“This isn’t over,” he warns. Jason scoffs, swipes his sandwich from the counter, and rummages through the fridge until he comes up with the milk.

“Whatever, brat. Wanna jump from the roof to the trampoline?”

He is about to say yes-it is good practice-when Dove shouts from the other room, “If you break your brother, you can kiss leaving the house after six goodbye!”

Tt.

* * *

Jason has had nightmares for as long as Damian has known him. He claims he’s always had them. And perhaps he has.

Most nights are quiet. Tonight, however, is another matter. Damian understands that his men…gently suggested…that he take the weekend off for some rest. He thinks something’s happened. Whatever the case, Jason goes to bed obscenely early, muttering something about a headache. So Damian is still awake-and allowed to be-when the screaming starts.

His first thought is that a murder is occurring. But Dove tells him to keep back before running upstairs, and he follows.

There is no murder. It is simply another nightmare, a violent one-Jason is tangled in his blankets, body taut and jerking almost as though…

Once, when Damian was very young, a man accidentally electrocuted himself. He looked very much like Jason does now, only by the time the current was shut down, he was…charred.

“All right, Jayjay, all right, all right, come on, look at me-” Dove presses down on his shoulders and he drops back onto the bed, jaw clacking shut. “Jay?”

Nothing for three, maybe four seconds. Then his brother’s jolting upright, flinging himself into her arms and nearly toppling her backwards with a choked, “Ma.”

“Sh-sh-sh…you’re all right, baby…Dami, honey, would you get me a glass of water?”

Jason is still clinging when Damian returns, arms locked around Dove’s neck like a small child. This is…unprecedented.

“Thank you, sweetheart…Jay? Jayjay? I want you to take a drink now.” He shakes his head and she rocks him back and forth, pushes gently at his shoulders. “C’mon, honey. Do this for me.”

He’s gasping for breath and trembling and Damian thinks, at first, that something’s really wrong, that he’s seizing or suffocating. A closer look says no, he’s not. He’s  **sobbing** , harsh, airless things that are more full-body heaves than tears. He’s so tense that he’s not moving at all, save for the-muscle spasms? That’s what they look like, more than shakes or shudders.

He’s never seen Jason like this. Not even a few months ago, when Mark Jones had shoved Damian towards another man, jammed a wad of fabric between his brother’s teeth and tweezed a good quarter-cup of shrapnel out of his stomach. (Dove had not been happy Jason’d taken Damian out with them in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“Sh-sh-sh…I gotcha, kid, I gotcha…come on. Just a sip, Jay. Please.”

He’s not sure what to do. Leaving seems to be the best option.

When he returns, an hour and fifteen minutes later, Jason’s alone again, lying flat on his back and breathing hard.

“Omen.” His voice is cracked and raw. “Sorry for the scare.”

“You were scared, not me.” He still is. He’s breathing deeply and the light is on the highest setting. “Why.”

“Nightmares’ll do that.”

“You were sent home,” Damian points out. “If there is a security issue--”

That garners a laugh, weak and shaky.

“Nah, kid. They worry, that’s all.”

“This has to do with the white streak.” He’s hit something-Jason’s face shutters and he flings an arm over his face. Defensive, but not angry. It is safe to push onwards. “Was it a traumatic experience?”

“Oh, yeah.” He’s tugged on until he’s lying down. “I. I d- **fuck** .” A deep, measured breath. “I died. When I was fifteen.”

Nonsense. He’s here now, isn’t he?

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not kidding. There was.” He swallows thickly. “An incident, on my way home from school. Six months later, I woke up and dug my way out of my grave.”

Damian frowns. That makes no sense.

However. There is that picture, in Jason’s office, of him and Dove when he was a teenager, standing next to a shattered tombstone. Nobody will tell him what that is. Dove just rolls her eyes, Jason always says something different and outlandish, and the MC says, ‘ask your brother’, and that’s all. Round and round the non-answers go.

“You are not lying?”

“I wish.” His voice is so, so flat. “I wish I was, Dami. It wasn’t fun.”

“I have yet to hear someone recommend it,” he says stiffly, and that prompts a laugh, shaky and high-pitched, but real.

“Now you know.” A heavy hand ruffles his hair. He doesn’t have the heart to swat him away. Not tonight. “Promise I won’t eat your brains.”

“As if I would let you.” Jason snorts. “Go to sleep. You are useless if you are overtired.”

“Mm-hm.” He yawns and rolls over, flinging an arm across Damian’s shoulders. “G’night, brat.”

“Tt.”

He will ask, he thinks, another time, about what happened. But for now, he is content to remain here for a little while longer, if only because he is now comfortable. And stuck.

And if he squirms a little closer, it is because he is cold. Not because Jason might appreciate it, or even to ensure the older boy is still breathing. He is cold, and that is all.

THE END


End file.
